Shine
by Tatjna
Summary: A young Cullen has a crisis of conscience fuelled by his growing dependence on lyrium and an encounter with a certain young mage. Angsty, conflicted and overwrought.


The small bottle on the shelf glows faintly from within, electric blue swirling through deeper shades, almost alive in the dim candlelight. Cullen runs a hand over his close-cropped scalp and avoids looking at it, focusing instead on the quote from the Chant hanging framed on the wall, a gift from the Revered Mother when he took his vows:

_Let him take notice and shine upon thee, for thou has done His work on this day._

His hands tremble and he looks down at them, recognising the early stages of the Shakes. Soon the tremor will reach his jaw and he will begin to sweat. His stomach turns faintly, reminding him that he has not yet eaten, and he glances at the bottle and away again.

_No._

In the year since taking his vows he has been careful, dutifully accepting his weekly ration of lyrium and using it only when necessary, the carefully-measured daily dose never increasing, never giving in to the temptation to seek the lyrium Dreaming as some do. Contained in that small bottle is the secret to the Templars' magic, an artificial connection to the Fade just as real as that of mages for the time it lasts. Contained more secretly is a creeping addiction that binds the Templars to the Chantry as effectively as any chains.

Shaking his head, Cullen rises to his feet and paces, a dull sheen of sweat breaking out on his bare shoulders as nausea rises in his belly. Nine months without any signs of addiction - he did better than most. But lately, his skill at

_blood magic_

finding mages has led Greagoir to send him out on more and more often, using his Fade connection to seek out runaways, to Silence and Smite and return them helpless to the safety of the Tower. The spells require lyrium to fuel them, and his weekly ration has been doubled in response. Now, he is not sure he's doing so well any more.

With trembling hands he undoes the silk sash around his waist and it drops rustling to the floor, leaving him standing in only his scarlet underskirt. Perspiration is beginning to run down his spine and his reflection in the window reveals a sickly pallor that reminds him of the young mage he brought in today. It had taken three Smites before Anders stopped struggling, the effort draining Cullen's reserves and leaving the mage sick and shaking.

Why? Cullen asks himself. Why does Anders keep running? He is safe in the Tower, the Circle's wards protecting mages from the worst of demon attacks. Even so, Cullen has heard the nightmare screams of the young apprentices as he patrols the Tower at night. He is no stranger to demon visitation himself - even now with his Fade connection almost gone, they whisper at the edge of his consciousness, drawn by the lyrium in his blood, tempting and taunting with desires he won't even admit to himself

_Solona_

and grasping at him when he refuses, wicked claws tearing at his mind. He knows mages fare much worse, pursued constantly by demons trying to catch them in a weak moment and possess them. He sits back on the bed, hands scrubbing at his face. Why would Anders choose being hunted and punished repeatedly over the safety of the Circle? The Templars keep him here for his own protection!

He recalls Anders' face, all ashen skin and huge brown eyes filled with pleading and silent accusation as the smirking dungeon guards dragged him roughly away. There are rumours - stories and overheard snatches of conversation in the dining hall – enough to know that not all Templars see their duty as he does, that sometimes Templar 'protection' is doled out with the back of a steel gauntlet.. or worse.

He shudders involuntarily and glances up, gaze drifting past the beckoning blue bottle to the wall plaque:

_For thou has done His work on this day._

He thinks of the bruises he has seen on faces and arms, the whispered excuses and eyes sliding away from his concerned questions, the young women who startle and flee as he approaches. Worse are those who simply acquiesce like Tranquil to his instructions, faces careful blank masks and voices low and trembling as they hurry to please him.

The Maker's work? Elbows on knees, his face falls into his hands. One year. One year as a full Templar and who has he protected? Anyone? Is this really what he signed up for? How is he helping – by sitting here nursing a growing addiction while throwing young mages to the wolves? How is this the Maker's work?

_Let him take notice and shine upon thee_

His shaky gaze wanders around the room and finally settles on the blue bottle. Cullen rises and before he can change his mind, unstoppers the bottle and downs it all - three days' worth - in one long swallow. As his vision begins to blur, he casts the empty bottle aside and lays himself out on the bed, pushing all thoughts of mages and Templars and pleading brown eyes from his fevered mind. Tonight, he will Dream.

_for thou has done His work on this day_

Closing his eyes, he feels the Fade reach out to him and smiles as the world falls away.

_shine_


End file.
